Sherlock Not for long
by CharliMay
Summary: Based on Benedict Cumberbatch's performance in Hawking. Sherlock is diagnosed with Motor Neuron disease. When John becomes Sherlock's carer shenanigans begin between their relationship. SLASH  First publish please review and let me know how I've done :


"John?" I looked up at the man leaning over me, Sherlock. "Stand up its time to leave". I stood slowly my mind coming to terms with the news I had just been told. I struggled to keep up with Sherlock as he stormed out of the doctor's office, his coat following dramatically after him.  
>Sherlock hailed a cab and climbed in I got in after him and looked him in the eye. "I don't want to talk about it yet John" He snapped before I could open his mouth. I said nothing. We sat in silence the whole journey, the cab driver looking in the mirror sensing the awkwardness between us. When we arrived at 221B Sherlock climbed over me and was out before the cab had come to a stop and flew up the stairs leaving me to pay the driver and close the front door.<p>

I climbed the stairs apprehensively and opened the door. Sherlock was sat in his chair with his knees under his chin, arms wrapped around his shins. "Explain it to me John" He demanded, his eyes fixed on the floor. I sat in the chair opposite his and took a deep breath. "Your brain is becoming detached from, your body. It will stop telling your body to move, no matter how hard you tell it to do something it won't respond. Slowly you won't be able to walk or talk. Then your breathing will deteriorate and" I couldn't finish my sentence. "I'll drown" He finished for me. "But I'll know everything that's happening?" I nodded. "Your brain its self won't be affected" Sherlock stood up fast and walked to the mirror on the mantelpiece. "I always thought I'd be in control" He was looking himself in his eyes, "But not for long I guess".

I know he found it hard to come to terms with but it wasn't going to be long before the effects would take there hold. He tried to ignore it. I took it upon myself to tell Mycroft and Lestrade. Mycroft hardly reacted just took it on board as if I told him his brother had a cold. Lestrade was supportive; he informed me that he would continue to ask for Sherlock's help as long as he seemed well enough.

I awoke early one morning around six thirty, I came down the stairs and made coffee. Sherlock was still asleep. I sat down in the lounge with my laptop. An hour or so had passed when I heard Sherlock stir awake in the other room. I heard him clutter around presumably getting dressed. He went quiet apart from a few frustrated short breaths and then a "FUCK!" bellowed from his room. Startled and shocked at the expletive, I ran into his room. He stood in the middle of the room with his shirt undone; desperately trying to do up the buttons with no such luck. His fingers flayed around the button and the button hole tormenting the poor man. "Help me" his voice was pathetic and broken. I took the shirt in my hands and slowly did the buttons up with Sherlock looking me straight in the eyes. When I had finished he simple turned away and walked out of the room. His pride obviously damaged, he never asked for help, ever. His walk had changed; his knees weren't responding and seemed to be moving at a different pace to the rest of his legs.

Lestrade text him with a case he struggled to put the phone back into his pocket. When we arrived at the crime scene Lestrade came to tell us what had happened. "And just to let you know the body is on the top floor" Sherlock tutted and pushed him out of the way. Determined to see the body he made his way to the stairs, I grabbed him by the arm and spun him to look at me. "I can take pictures if you'd rather stay here" I asked him giving him an option. I knew he wouldn't take it; Anderson and Donavon were both looking at him confused as to why he had developed a new walk. He saw them and immediately turned to climb, not giving them any satisfaction. He gripped the railing of the stairs so tight his knuckles went white. I felt myself put my hand on his back for support, which he quickly shock off. He reached the top of the staircase, breathless and exhausted. Lestrade turned to him with an expression of concern "Sherlock if things are getting too much I don't have to bother you." Sherlock just ignored him and walked into the room where the body was. He held on to the door frame to steady and support him.

In the room the body of a young man sat on a chair with his left wrist cut open, "Suicide?" Lestrade questioned. Sherlock moved around the chair collecting information. All I could tell was that the boy was around 22 years old and had been dead for at least 2 days. I looked to Sherlock for more answers. "21 year old from Sussex probably Brighton, came to London 3 days ago due to the mud on his shoes, it's not a suicide his left handed, Do I really have to tell you this surely you know all this by now" Lestrade smiled "We just wanted to hear it from the expert himself". 

When Sherlock was satisfied he struggled back down the stairs and stopped in front of Donavon and looked her with a sincere look "Shouldn't stare Donavon makes you look very unattractive" He walked away but Donavon stopped me.  
>"Whats going on with freak? He's - freakier lately"<br>"He's developing motor neurons disease Sally! You could be kinder about it." I starred at her while she tried to collect an apology I followed after Sherlock. 

In the cab home I spoke to him about using a stick to give him ease when moving around. He reluctantly agreed after stating that the stick would be better company than me. When we got home I went to my room and found the stick I had used for my leg. I took it down to him, he just nodded and smiled. Clearly down about his situation I sat next to him and placed my hand on his knee.  
>"Do you want to talk about today?" I asked<br>"No" He snapped quickly. Even though he was in pain he hadn't changed the way he responded. Short and sweet. I went to stand up but he grabbed the sleeve of my jumper. I turned around and he pulled himself up slowly holding on to my arms he looked me in the eyes and apologised for everything. "I've put a lot of pressure on you and it isn't fair, I know you'd rather move out and move in with Sarah" I stood there looking at him with a completely confused expression. "I deduced it John, it really isn't that hard to understand the stress I am putting on you" Next thing I know I put my hands around his waist pulled in close to me and kissed him gently on the lips. He didn't kiss me back. I let him go quickly and stepped away. He looked at me with this blank expression across his face. He was trying to find an explanation for my actions, searching my face for answers.

He struggled past me and limped into his bedroom. It hurt me to watch him walk, he wasn't the same, and he didn't have the cocky swagger that he used to have. Now he has one leg that is a pace slower than the other. He had an ankle that has turned all the way inwards and a hip that would stick and slip.

We didn't mention the kiss for days. We just carried on as roommates. Sherlock was rapidly getting worse, his speech would splay and slur. Crime scenes were becoming less and less accessible and his tolerance for idiotic remarks disappeared completely. He would lose his temper with insignificant objects he could no longer use, his mobile, my laptop, his magnifying glass. You could see the amount of concentration it took him to do daily task his hands disobeying his commands and folding in on themselves. My heart ached for him, begged to talk to him but he never wanted to talk about it. He'd just ignore it, the great fucking elephant in the room. Make that two elephants, his disease and the kiss.

One day in August Lestrade had given us a call to a crime scene in an old aircraft holdall. A homosexual couple had been shot dead during intercourse. I can clarify that this was one of the most awkward crime scenes I had ever visited with Sherlock. The couple were on the floor in the same position they had been in when having said intercourse. Sherlock had a look around at the bodies acting unfazed by the sight before him. "The man on top was in his early 50's travelled from Liverpool in the last 48 hours according to the bottom of his jeans and shoes, the man underneath is in his late 20's from the local area by the look of the calcium break down on his teeth and fingernails. Shot with a single bullet instantly killing both men. I sugg-" He stopped talking suddenly, lent heavy against his stick and his eyes had glazed over. "John, I have to sit down" And with that he fell to the ground in a heap. I quickly ran to his side and demanded Lestrade help me carry him outside. His light frame would have been easy to carry myself but I was afraid of dropping him. We laid him out in the back of a police car and I checked his vitals. He only appeared to have fainted but I knew it was caused by the strain he was putting on his fragile body. He carried on as if nothing new had happened; he would eat very little and would hardly sleep. It was taking its toll with the illness.

An hour or so later he came round and found he was back in the flat. I was sat on the bottom of his bed facing away and wasn't aware that he was conscious again till I felt a vicious kick in my back. I turned round and was greeted by a scolding face. "I was at a crime scene" He snapped. "Yes and then you collapsed. An hour ago" I snapped back in the same harsh tone. I had started to get more and more frustrated with him, my words being crueller. "I collapsed! For god sake how pathetic! What is wrong with me!" He was angry and was looking for an argument. I tried not to rise to it and answered him simply "You are dying Sherlock." I couldn't cope with that and burst into tears. I was sat on the bottom of Sherlock's bed crying hysterically. The very idea of losing my best friend to this unforgiving merciless disease was tearing me in two. I sat there in tears a while longer till I felt a precautious hand rest on my shoulder. "I'm sorry John." I turned round to face him and saw that he was also crying, big fat tears were cascading down his soft pale cheeks. I raised a hand to wipe the tears away. He held my hand on his cheek. He looked me deep into my eyes and I could where the tears had formed from. He lent forward and rested his head on my shoulder and continued to sob. I had never seen Sherlock so vulnerable before. He was scared, he was losing control. I had lied down next to him, with his head still on my shoulder. That was how we slept that night.

Sherlock didn't leave the house for three days straight after the collapse. He'd started smoking again stating that if 'he was going to die anyway what difference would lung cancer make'. He sat in his smoke filled room with the curtains pulled shut all day long. I'd take him something to eat or drink and it would still be where I had left it in the first place. He had dug himself into a depressive hole and didn't know how to get out. I finally had enough when he asked me if I could get him some cocaine from a dealer he knew. I shouted at him, threw the curtains open and ripped the bed sheets off him. I couldn't believe how idiotic he was behaving. "Get the fuck up!" I screamed at him dragging him by his arm. He slowly got up from the bed and looked me straight in the eyes. One side of his face had slipped where the muscles had stopped working. I pushed him out of the room and into the bathroom. "Shower, now" He stood and looked at me like I had just had a brain snap. "I'm serious Sherlock!" He started laughing "I can't stand up in the shower, you idiot**."  
><strong>"That is why I'm coming in with you. Dick." I started to undress myself starting with my socks. I looked up at Sherlock who just stood there watching me take off my clothes. "Get undressed then!" He didn't do as he was told; instead he took hold of my belt buckle. His delicate fingers struggled to pop it open and when he succeeded a triumphant 'humph' followed. His hand then pulled down the fly of my jeans. I stood motionless. He proceeded to pull down my jeans. As he did so I glanced over his still clothed frame and could see his excitement growing. I decided it was best not to make any fast movement in case I startled him. He continued to undress me till I was stood in only my pants. I reached my hand and slipped off his dressing gown. It fell elegantly to the floor soon followed by his pyjama top. "Are you wearing any pants?" A question I had asked before but in an entirely different context. He shook his head and smiled. I turned away to switch the shower on and when I turned back Sherlock was stood naked and proud. With good reason. His erection stood as tall and slender as Sherlock himself. It took much control not to grasp him there, instead I quickly removed my boxers to reveal my own growing erection and help Sherlock over the rim of the bath tub into the shower. I followed after him and angled the shower head to spray on to the tiled wall. I lent him up against the wall where the water was spraying and kissed him deeply on the mouth. To my surprise he kissed me back, his tongue fighting for permission to enter my mouth. I granted permission immediately and he entered. He was clearly inexperienced and thrashed around like a teenager. I pulled away and looked at him. "Sherlock, slow down, let me take control." I reached over for the shower gel and poured a generous amount on the palm of my hand. I caressed it over Sherlock's body, his rib cage, collar bones and hip bones. I lathered the gel into a bubbly layer all over his body. I added a bit more shower gel to my hand and took hold of Sherlock throbbing member. He gasped at the hold, I wondered what a quivering wreck he would be if I was inside him. I began to pump Sherlock slow and his hands raised themselves to my shoulders for support. I speed up my movements and Sherlock turned his face into the flow of water. My own erection was beginning to ache from lack of attention. I whispered "I want you" into Sherlock's ear and he almost melted under me. I took that as consent and turned him to face the wall. I got more shower gel and coated my own length in the substance. Probably not the best thing to use as lube but it was in an arm's reach. I used the remaining gel on my fingers and slipped one into Sherlock, he puffed heavily, I slipped a second in and he cried out at the pain. I tried to stretch him as much as I could. "You ready?" I was answered by a reluctant nod and he rested his forehead on the wall. "Sher, relax" I positioned myself behind him and removed the fingers slowly. I then started to enter Sherlock, he yelled out and I ran my hand over his lower back to comfort him. I pushed in further and pulled out to the tip, then I quickly pushed all the way to the hilt and hit Sherlock's prostate. He shouted out in a mix of pleasure and pain. I continued to hit the same spot progressing faster and faster. I knew when I had hit the right spot because every time Sherlock would make a little whimper sound, every time. He was getting close, as was I. I wanted his first time to be perfect, so I made sure he was getting double attention. I took hold of his erection and began to pump in time with my thrusts. Speeding up I could feel and hear him about to tip over. He came heavy with a remarkable groan. His cum covered my hand and the tiles in front of him. As he came his muscles tightened around me and I was pushed over. White lights flashed in my eyes and I grunted deep as I emptied into him. I pulled out slowly and sat on the edge of the bath. Sherlock turned round to face me. He slipped a bit on the surface of the tub and I put my arms out to hold him still. He smiled at me with his curly hair flattened against his forehead from the water.

That night we slept in Sherlock's bed together, our body's wrapped around each other. He fell asleep very quickly, so I watched him sleep. He was in so much pain even in his sleep he was in agony. He was honest in his sleep but during the day he could lie pretend he was ok. All he needed was some morphine to take away the pain. I could have so easily gotten it for him if he told me. I didn't sleep much that night. Instead I made a list in my head of everything I should have done to help him and what I had done that would have made it worse. Shouting at him, allowing him to smoke. Having sex wouldn't have helped, but then the orgasm would have helped to relax his muscles. For hours I sat there with thoughts running round my head. I must have dosed off in amongst my thoughts because I woke up to my phone ringing in the lounge. I wriggled free from Sherlock's grip and answered my phone. It was Lestrade.

I decided to leave Sherlock in bed and met Lestrade in a café near the yard. He didn't have a case but just wanted to check in on Sherlock and how I was coping. "It's hard work Greg, he won't let me help him, he should be in a wheelchair but he struggles on regardless." He nodded with me sympathetically; he was being kind and allowing me to get things off my chest. I hadn't spoken to a normal person in weeks. The day went on and we moved to a pub. We got drinking and I became more and more honest "He can be normal though, like the other night he got upset and fell asleep in my arms." Lestrade was very drunk and as was I, so we piled out of the pub and in to separate taxis. The night ended there.

The next morning I awoke of the floor between the sofa and the coffee table, with an almighty hangover. I stayed there for a while, then called out for Sherlock. There was no answer, the worst immediately ran through my head. How I had left him on his own and his breathing had deteriorated and stopped how scared he would have been. How selfish I had been. I could hardly walk in to his room for fear of him being dead. I eased the door open and poked my head round the corner. There he was sitting up reading he god damn Edgar Allan Poe book "Fuck you." He looked up at me like nothing had happened. "Good morning, how was your night, you look terrible" There was no point in having a go at him for not reply to me so I threw a pillow at him and sat next to him. "Sherly, do you want to go out for breakfast?"


End file.
